The Book of Mantorok
by JH Sounds
Summary: To put it simply: If you are reading these words, you are going to have the worst day of your life.
1. Opening Fate

Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of any copyrighted material.

Chapter I: Opening Fate

_If you are reading these words, you are going to have the worst day of you life. Provided that this has not been ripped from it's pages; you are now in the presence of the vilest, most damned and accursed object known to man or creature. The blood of are countless lives embedded within these pages, and if you choose the wrong path, as others have, you will share their fate._

_The game has begun._

_The veil has been lifted._

"Damn!"

Michael Edwards stumbled onto the stone steps leading out to the street. His foot had caught on something, but he had no time to check what it was.

A distorted shape appeared from behind a window at the front of the mansion. It wasn't human. As he walked away, he followed the image until it was out of sight.

The package was still in his overcoat. He had risked his neck to get back to Rhode Island, narrowly avoiding an unholy death at the hands of unfathomable beings. But he had forgotten to leave the relic at the front door.

He turned and began his walk back toward the site, when he froze.

Something in the darkness moved.

Reaching for his sack, he suddenly realized what he had tripped on.

Michael ran.

He leaped over a police barrier and fled down the hill. Footsteps approached hurriedly from behind.

Mike suddenly ducked into an alley, hoping that whatever thing was following would be thrown off his trail. But he probably shouldn't have done that.

Racing past a dumpster, a sharp claw swiped viciously at his knee. Michael could only take a half step before falling to the ground.

The creature shifted its way toward the hurt figure, emitting a low hiss. It edged closer and closer to him as Mike managed to get up on one leg. He pathetically attempted to run, but his injured leg wobbled stubbornly.

The thing covered in shadow suddenly came into light.

A horror.

But it was unlike any horror he had ever seen. It's deep mauve veins shone dully on it's slimy skin, and it's expanding and contracting jaw pedals were similar to carnivorous plants.

Michael fell back onto the ground, his leg giving out, and the beast stood nearly over him. It touched a claw to his chest, feeling his quickening heartbeat. Then, with an unearthly howl, it brought it's other claw down on him with a sickening CRACK.

_Awake_.

Michael sat up in his bed, drenched in sweat. He had just experienced the most vivid nightmare of his life.

He touched his scalp, and felt a slight fuzz. How long had be been asleep? Just how much longer did he plan on hiding in his apartment, hoping that the past few years were all a dream?

He got up, his right knee exploding with pain. It had been bandaged rather neatly with a scrap of blue cloth shortly after leaving the Roivas mansion that dark night.

Michael began to unwrap the cloth from his knee. The skin had healed well, but the damage to the ligaments was severe. He slowly limped over to the bathroom.

Clicking the light on, he rinsed off the sweat that had accumulated on his face and neck. He then reached for the shaving cream, catching his reflection in the mirror.

Was that really him?

He had large bags under his eyes, and his lips were dry and sore. The specks of hair on his scalp were graying with stress, and eyes were bloodshot. What had he become?

He shaved.

At the kitchen, Michael's notes lay undisturbed at his table. He turned to the refrigerator, and noticed the sign he had once placed on the freezer door:

Evil Within – DO NOT OPEN 

To think, at one time, the relic was just above his leftover macaroni.

He sat down with a carton of cereal, pushing aside a few of the papers. It seemed that fate was the bastard child of destiny and bad luck. At one time, he had passed on a very important item to Edward Roivas, but the old man's senility had caused him to panic before arriving home. The item became property of the local precinct for a while, but they naturally couldn't make heads or tails of the thing. It therefore became very difficult to retrieve the item, but Michael managed.

On his second attempt, he had delivered the package directly to Edward's survived granddaughter, at the mansion built over the temple of Enggha. But it certainly wasn't the last time he visited the place.

After news had reported a "strange light" in the vicinity of the mansion and "unusual planetary activity" shortly thereafter, Michael knew it was time to deliver his final package.

It was the night his knee was injured. After about an hour of rigorous exploring, he was unable to find her.

A creak.

Alex?

It was then he had lost hold of his wits and bolted for the exit.

Mike finished his cereal. He let the spoon drop with a hard clink and put his head in his hands. Did Alex still have the book? Was she even alive?

He kept replaying the events of that night in his mind. If only he had done things differently...

He dropped the bowl into the sink and thought deeply. Maybe he was never destined to be the keeper of the book, but he felt strangely tied to it. It was funny, though: he was never into collecting.

Just then, Michael's shoulder brushed against a cordless phone as he walked passed it. The receiver disconnected from its holder, instantly falling to the ground. Realizing his clumsiness, he replaced it onto the hook.

As soon as it left his hand, it rang. Startled, he picked it up. "Yes?"

"Mike," said a voice, "you need to get over here right away."

"Who is this?" he asked, and how did they know his name?

"Please, hurry!" the voice continued. It sounded female, but the voice echoed hollowly, as if the woman were stuck deep inside a well.

"Where are you?" he asked, trying to make some sense out of the call.

"The mansion!"

"Alex?"

The line went dead.

------

He couldn't believe what he was doing. Michael always believed he would die well before his time, perhaps because of his former profession. Every night since he discovered the terror that existed behind the veil, he would have terrifying dreams of a powerful consuming flame that would burn him from the inside out. Maybe this was his vision of hell. But it wasn't much worse than his present life.

Michael hated the waking world, fully aware of the damnation at the boundaries of reality. But he also despised his slumber.

Insanity held a middle ground.

He gripped the door handle, and noticed it had changed shape since the last time he had visited to the mansion. But the door opened easily, so he entered. He didn't recall the stairs bending like that.

The second floor had somehow been inverted horizontally -- a mirror image. Michael instinctively turned left, then caught himself and went to the right. Or was it the other way around?

Mike suddenly felt a mild irritation in the center of his palm as he prepared to push open the door into the next room. He decided to use his other hand instead, and walked into the bathroom.

The irritation worsened.

He went over to the sink and examined his hand. There was no mark or anything to indicate the cause of the prickling sensation. Running water over it didn't seem to help either.

Hiss... 

He turned up the sink.

Hiss... 

He tried using some soap.

Hiss... 

But at that point, he had already turned off the water.

His head turned towards the bathtub. Someone had left the faucet running. Maybe.

Slowly bracing himself for what he might see, the man named Michael Edwards peered unflinchingly into the tub.


	2. Second Sight

Chapter II: Second Sight.

Red.

Large splotches of rich splatter filled the tub. Terror gripped Michael's chest. Was this Alex's blood? In the middle of all this, encrusted with coagulation, was the book of Mantorok.

It had pried off with a disturbing crackle as he looked over its contents. The cover had been emblazoned with an ancient purple symbol, featuring an unblinking eye at its center. He turned it over and over in his hands -- it was all too familiar to him. He checked to see if it had been damaged, and his eyes fell transfixed on an illustration found a third of the way in. He hadn't noticed that before.

It was a picture of a man. It seemed more like a silhouette than anything else, as if the artist had drawn only the shadows that were cast over his face without filling in the rest.

Below the image appeared a name: Charles Lee.

------

_I am blind. But I was not always this way. I am no longer able read my own writings, and thus I have recollected what I have transcribed within my own mind. It is quite a bitter fate: friends had once joked that I was extraordinarily intuitive -- that I had a 'sixth sense'. I suppose that number has now gone back to five._

_It all began to happen when I had started keeping a record of all the eerie occurrences that I observed during my stay at the Ferdinand Villa. I wrote what I saw then saw no more._

"Charles!" shouted the master.

I hurriedly scampered over to him, bent down on one knee, and gave him my most sincere apologies.

"I should have you flogged for your lateness," spoke Ferdinand Vermillion, rubbing his dry neck. "Now get up, and even out the fire."

Sure enough, I had sifted the logs at the fireplace until they were satisfactory. The master seemed a harsh man, but years of being his servant had revealed a fascinating spectrum of repressed emotions that were implanted beneath the thin surface of his personality.

He called out again. "Charles! The invitations were all accepted. Prepare the dinner table for 19 seats."

I had already done so, but I was not about to acknowledge his error. "Yes, master."

Those whom he had invited were taking as much time as possible to arrive at the villa, as none wanted to get here first. Let us say that the Vermillions were not known for their luck and good fortune.

The earliest known member of the family line died of the plague after fathering two daughters. One of the children had passed in her sleep after a head injury, and the other suffered massive blood loss while birthing her only child.

It continued in each generation -- wild, unpredictable death. The family line extended henceforth, finally ending at Ferdinand's mother, who became mentally ill. She committed suicide shortly thereafter on this day, seventeen years ago. It was to be commemorated at dinner that night.

The master gently tapped his glass to quiet the table, though it was certainly clear that no one had been talking. "Tonight," he began, "we will honor the life of one special woman. If you all would raise your cups, please?"

The group did so, mawkishly.

"To Vera," said Ferdinand, "She was more than a mother; she was a friend."

The group saluted.

Later that night, as I set the dishes in the basin, I began to hear the soft whimper of the master in the den. I supposed it would be rude to walk in on him during such a tender moment, so I let myself out through an alcove set between a bookcase and the den wall.

Finding myself facing the shore of the villa, I felt inspired and resumed my daily journal entry that had been interrupted by the master earlier. The night sky hadn't fully darkened, the last few embers of day still fading into obscurity.

"Charles!" came the distant cry of the master.

"Coming, sir!" I assumed I would never get my entry done.

Returning properly into the den, I gave a bow, then asked what the problem was.

"They are after me, Charles!" he said with a sob. "I can feel it." He gripped the sides of the couch. "You know what has happened to my family. The Vermillion name is cursed!"

I felt embarrassed for him. "Sir, would you like something to drink?"

"NO!" he uttered. "It could be poisoned. I refuse to die that way!"

He hadn't eaten in days, and it was getting the better of him. If it weren't for Vera's anniversary, I should think he would starve.

"Should I draw a bath?" I asked.

"Charles, don't you remember? That is how Aunt Margaret died."

Then I started to wonder. "I hope you would forgive me for saying this, sir, but the prevention of your early passing actually seems to be causing it."

Ferdinand eyes suddenly focused on my face. "Come again?"

"This stress, sir. Not eating, and all of these strenuous exercises in preventing your demise. They may be what ultimately lands you six feet under soil. Sir."

The master buried the knuckles of his right hand deeply into the fat of his underchin. "Charles." A pause. "Draw a bath."

It was not long after that I was removing his robe as he dipped into the water. I discreetly left the bathroom, thumbing the journal concealed in my evening coat. I had barely taken a step past the closed door when I beheld what stood before me.

The oil paintings of past Vermillions had all been terribly torn. Some lay in shambles on the carpet, other were jabbed into the woodwork supporting the upper floors. Who could have done such atrocities?

A pool of translucent liquid ran up the carpet, continued around the corner, and went straight into a solid wall. Perplexing, to say the least. The room behind the wall seemed to contain an ever radiant, throbbing source of light. Perhaps curiosity got the better of me, but I felt the irresistible urge to open that door. It was the worst decision of my life.

A space somewhere in the back of my eyes had erupted with total, unrelenting, unsympathetic pain. The pure shock brought me to my knees, and the immense agony had nearly caused me to black out. It hurt too much to even scream.

"Charles!" said a voice. "Charles!" said the master. "Charles!" said Ferdinand Vermillion. "Charles!" said the Reaper.

"Charles!"

It was hard to tell which way was up. I dumbly sliced my hand open on something cold and metallic and finally got to my feet. Reaching out without sight, I staggered about, desperately taking in what I could feel at the tips of my fingers.

The master's voice became stronger, more pronounced, and I could recognize the texture of the door that lead into the bathroom. I entered.

"Charles." His voice was weakening. "Charles, I think I'm dying."

I feel to my knees, no longer caring. The back of my head felt like it was on fire. "Sir," I spoke through gritted teeth, "I think I am, too."

"I can't feel my arm," he said, apparently not caring much for me himself. It is surprising how little we feel for others when our own emotions are distracted.

"Before I go," he continued, "I would like to tell you how much I have been satisfied by your performance." At least he cared that much. "Also, you may have all that is left of my fortune."

"But you have not anything other that the villa."

"Errrgh!" he groaned. "Please, accept it."

So I did, moments before he passed away.

_In the aftermath of Ferdinand's death, it almost came as an afterthought that I had become blind. After a thorough inspection of the site, and having found no evidence, it was decided by the authorities that the villa belonged to no one. The Vermillion line had ended. But I had resumed inscribing the events, right up until these last few words. I had realized the truth._

_Second sight is only a fragmented, distorted illusion -- an echo of the first. That is how I ultimately rest my quill._

------

It was all Michael Edwards wanted to read for now, and so he closed the book.


End file.
